Page 8 of Old Money

I forced myself to breathe. I pictured Gloria Joyce’s face, as familiar as my own mother’s. How many times had she given me dinner? How many birthday cards had I gotten with goofy little notes to “our second daughter”?

“Shit,” I winced. “I’m sorry. About your parents, I mean.”

I heard her turn away from the phone and blow her nose.

“Look, it’s fine, you didn’t know. And I’m sorry for not calling sooner. It’s been chaos. I had to drop everything.”

Something about her voice—some thread of hesitation.

I pictured her on the other end, blinking slowly as she spoke.

Susannah was a bad liar with an obvious tell.

She’d start blinking uncontrollably the second she started saying something false.

It was hilarious—in high school, she actually practiced on me, trying to stop the reflex.

The best she could do was slow it down, which made the giveaway even more obvious.

She’d start blinking in slow motion like a sleepy kitten, whenever she tried to fudge the details or tell even a minor fib.

“Right,” I said, trying to put my finger on it. “Chaos, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, breaking my lease, finding a new job. God, is there any chance you could be cool with this?”

I faced myself in the mirror, my mouth agape and incredulous. Susannah continued before I could answer.

“You know, I only applied because it was local. But honestly? The foundation’s great—the people are great.”

There it is , I thought. There’s the bullshit .

“It’s a huge step up too,” she added. “If I stayed here, I wouldn’t make director for five years.”

Her voice brightened as she carried on about her exciting new role.

Gone was the pretense of a chaotic, last-minute move.

Gone was the somber tone and stress over her parents, so desperate for her help.

That might’ve been true, but she certainly hadn’t “dropped everything,” and fled across the country to pitch in.

She’d taken her time. “It’s been in the works for months,” she’d said.

I imagined leisurely interviews, some higher-up flying out to have lunch with her.

Had she even applied, or had they been courting her?

And if so, had she balked even once at the thought of working for them?

“Wow,” I said, interrupting. “Congrats on the dream job.”

Susannah stopped.

“What?” she said. “I don’t follow.”

“It sounds like a great career move, really. You could’ve just told me that,” I said. “You could’ve just told me the truth, I could’ve handled it.”

She inhaled sharply.

“You know what, Alice? I don’t think you could.”

From there, we were off to the races. I called her out for eliding the truth about this new job.

I told her it was obvious she’d compromised herself, and she clearly knew it too.

Why else would she avoid telling me? Why blame it on her parents, like a child?

It wasn’t blame, Susannah said; it was responsibility—something she claimed I knew nothing about it.

She laid into me about my stunted, selfish mindset.

Yes , what happened was terrible, but it was time to move on.

She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life avoiding the village, and she certainly wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity like this out of some childish sense of loyalty to me.

“Okay, fine!” I shouted—we were both shouting by then. “Forget me, what about Caitlin?”

“What about her?! She’s dead and it’s awful, but Jesus, what am I supposed to do?!”

“Literally, work anywhere else maybe?” I answered through hot tears. “Take anyone else’s money.”

“These people didn’t kill her! They didn’t know her! And shit, Alice, you barely knew her!”

I went still, standing straight-backed in the middle of the bathroom, my nose and eyes streaming.

“What the hell does that mean, Susannah?”

She sniffled on the other end, crying herself.

“You—”

She cut herself off, pausing for a breath. I could hear her thinking, then deciding to say it.

“You act like Caitlin was the most important person in your life, and that her death was the most important thing that happened to you. The most important thing that happened, period.”

My head felt numb and unwieldy on my neck. I shook it silently, not knowing what to say. She was just completely wrong.

“I remember listening to you talk about her one night a few years ago—maybe on her birthday, I’m not sure. And I suddenly thought, Caitlin’s the one who died . This isn’t just a thing that happened to you , Alice Wiley. ”

“A few years ago?” I finally replied. “You never said anything. I wish I’d known how you felt.”

A sad, ragged laugh came through the phone.

“No, you don’t, Alice,” Susannah said. “I love you, but that’s bullshit. You wanted my support, my validation—my actual thoughts and opinions? Not so much. Not if they challenged yours.”

“That’s not true,” I answered, stunned and mumbling. “That’s not fair.”

“Fine,” she sniffed. “Fine, you win, you’ve got dibs on fair . I’d rather be honest than fair anyway.”